


In Which a Good Time is Had By All

by songlin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, Historical, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were two chief reasons Aziraphale was so fond of the fourteenth century. The first was due to the fact that he spent most of those hundred years as a monk in a quiet monastery in Avignon that was principally occupied with copying manuscripts. The second reason had Crowley in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which a Good Time is Had By All

If Aziraphale had to choose a favorite century, it would have to be the fourteenth. Not because of anything political or the general climate at the time. As a matter of fact, the 1300s were pretty lousy in those respects. There were two chief reasons Aziraphale was so fond of the fourteenth century.

The first was due to the fact that he spent most of those hundred years as a monk in a quiet monastery in Avignon that was principally occupied with copying manuscripts, and Aziraphale _loved_ books. He loved the slightly musty smell of dust and paper and ink, the feel of the stiff parchment between his fingers, the weight of them in his arms, the beautifully copied letters on every page and the lovely illuminations spilled at the tops of them like a beautiful woman’s hair. Just the thought of books made him a little dizzy with excitement.

He used to spend days at a stretch just walking through the scriptorium, picking a book at random and reading slowly, savoring the words and the smell and the comfort. He often didn’t even bother to finish before choosing another tome. It made the feeling last, you see.

Aziraphale was never tasked with actually copying out the manuscripts. The monks found his extensive knowledge of the subject matter(1) a little eerie, and he had a tendency to overelaborate upon the scripture. He was quite good at caring for the books, however, particularly repairing and retracing damaged volumes, so the monks put him in charge of the preservation of codices and left him to his own devices.

The second reason had Crowley in it.

One pleasant autumn evening in roughly 1310, Aziraphale could be found ignoring the summons to Vespers(2) to commune with an early copy of the Vulgate. He breathed the words slowly to himself under his breath while cautiously running his fingers along the edge of the pages. It was better that way, engaged more of his senses, really immersing him.

“It can’t talk back, you know.”

Aziraphale’s reading came to a screeching halt. He knew that voice. He knew that voice and had less than no desire to hear it when he was quite in the middle of something, whatever his stupid _human_ nether regions thought. He shut the book tenderly, slipped it back onto its shelf and scowled at Crowley.

“You have an impressive gift of knowing precisely when I am enjoying myself and making yourself present to spoil it.”

Crowley smirked. “I like to think you enjoy our exploits.”

Aziraphale ignored that. “What in the world are you wearing?”

“This? Oh.” He had a kilt on. The rest of his garb was equally Scottish, sans bagpipe. “There’s a spot of nonsense going on in Scotland right now. English buggers invading, you know the idea. I’m supposed to be pestering this bloke named Robert the Bruce. I pop in from time to time, try to encourage him. Half-decent chap, if a little...temperamental.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Temperamental Scots. Who would ever imagine? Now, if you’ve just stopped over to say hello and check up on me, you’ve done your job, and I’d appreciate it if you popped back out again. I’m late for Vespers.”

Crowley snorted. “You never go to Vespers. Not with a scriptorium to play in.”

Aziraphale conceded this point. “What are you here for, then?”

“To check up on you,” Crowley admitted. “I heard rumors of some mad monk out in Avignon who was putting out the loveliest calligraphy for a time. Figured it was probably you.”

“Oh. Well, it was. But I’m mostly doing preservation and restoration now.” He sniffed. “Which I’d like to keep working on, if you _don’t_ mind.”

“Come, now, this is no way to greet an old friend!” Crowley took a step forward and punched Aziraphale lightly in the shoulder. Aziraphale looked slightly affronted. “Admit it, you missed me.”

“Like bookworms. Or mice.”

“Sexy mice.” Crowley waggled his eyebrows.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Crowley grinned and, claiming it as a sign of triumph, was bold enough to take another step forward, rest his hands on Aziraphale’s hips and give him a brief kiss.

“I have missed you,” he said in a low voice. “Things aren’t pleasant over my way.”

“They’re not perfect here,” Aziraphale admitted, wrapping his arms around the small of Crowley’s back. “I’m supposed to be handling that pope thing(3)...”

“Now, Aziraphale, no pope talk in bed.” Crowley’s mouth was uncomfortably close.

“We’re not in bed,” Aziraphale pointed out, quite proud of his ability to sustain a sufficiently snarky tone through a haze of arousal.

“No,” Crowley said with a wide grin that could have gotten him burned as a witch in several countries, “we’re better.”

He shoved Aziraphale against a shelf, eliciting a very un-angelic squeak.

“What are you _doing_ , think about the _books--”_

“Oh, you are, aren’t you?” Crowley whispered, pinning Aziraphale’s wrists at eye level. “I know how much you love the silly things. The smell,” he kissed him again, “the pages rustling,” a nip at his ear, “the grainy paper...” lips on his throat, sucking, biting, teasing.

Aziraphale had a few vestiges of dignity left to him, regardless of what the vaguely inarticulate sounds he was making in his throat implied. “What if I--ahh, _one word_ in edgewise, Crowley--what if I _sweat?_ Mmm...no! Not done talking! The manuscripts!”

“Bugger the manusscriptssss,” Crowley hissed. “It’ss been _monthsss.”_

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. It _was_ very pleasant here in the scriptorium, and empty to boot, with the brothers at Vespers...

He relaxed into Crowley with a sigh. Crowley responded with a growl in the back of his throat and another bite to Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale took advantage of the moment of mental absence to go after Crowley’s clothes.

“How do you get this thing off?” he snapped, fiddling with the kilt. “It’s like it was specifically designed to thwart this sort of thing!”

“Believe me, it wasn’t. That Robert bloke manages(4). Here, let me.” He started rapidly shedding sashes, belts, and articles of clothing Aziraphale had never seen before. He was suddenly thankful all he had to do was untie a belt and pull a robe over his head, which he did before Crowley had even gotten the kilt off.

“Finally!” Crowley exclaimed, and tackled him to the floor, naked as an incubus and twice as eager.

Aziraphale thanked God there was a rug on that particular patch of floor and that his head had landed on the pile of clothing. Sex on stone was an excellent way to almost literally freeze one’s arse off, and being brutally slammed to stone was not his cranium’s idea of a nice day. They landed with Aziraphale on his back and Crowley on his front, with his head in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s stomach, hands planted on both sides of Aziraphale’s legs and knees between his.

“There we are,” Crowley crooned, crawling slowly up the angel’s body. Aziraphale bit his lip. His legs spread slowly as the demon came closer and closer. “Do you want me, angel?”

“Yes!” he gasped.

“What do you want?” They were face to face by now. He cradled Aziraphale’s head in his. “Sssssay it, angel,” he whispered, drawing out the hiss, because Crowley knew what it did to him. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Aziraphale squirmed under him. “You’re not making me beg,” he said, though his tone told otherwise. “I won’t.”

Crowley grinned. They had played this game before. “Ssscertainly, angel.”

And then they were kissing again, a little violently, it must be said, with crashing teeth and growls and moans. Neither of them needed to breathe, you know, and they kissed with accordant length and depth.

“I’ll moan,” Aziraphale panted when at last they broke, “I’ll scream your name even, but I’m not begging you for anything.”

“We’ll sssee,” Crowley snickered. “I’ve plansssss.”

And then he was kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs, spreading them as far as he could and rubbing his hands slowly up and down the backs of his thighs. “You like thiss, I remember. Come on, angel, you know the drill. Relaxsssss.”

Aziraphale was anything but. His muscles were wound tight as violin strings, and Crowley was playing them.

“There,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley’s finger only just pressed against him, _“oh yes there!”_

“That pouch under your shoulder,” Crowley said huskily, “give it over.”

Aziraphale fumbled for a moment and found it. Crowley ruffled through it for a moment before holding up a small jar with a grin.

“Thought you lot kept ears in those?” Aziraphale said breathlessly.

“Have you ever smelled a half-rotten ear?” said Crowley, dipping two fingers into the jar and dipping the same two fingers into Aziraphale.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and cried out. Crowley crouched over him, slowly, cruelly curling his fingers, stretching, moving in and out, whispering words of encouragement.

“Yesss, angel, sssssssscream for me, moan...I want to hear you shouting my name when you come all over me...”

“Do something useful with that mouth of yours and stuff it,” Aziraphale panted.

“Cheeky boy,” Crowley chuckled, giving Aziraphale a light slap on the arse.

But he obliged, and Aziraphale found himself biting his fist to muffle himself. It must be remembered that Crowley had once been a snake and had retained much of his serpentine tongue dexterity(5).

Just before Aziraphale was sure he could stand it no longer, Crowley’s head lifted and he was kneeling between his legs again, hands clinging to Aziraphale’s hips. “You want me, Azsssiraphale, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped, “oh yes.”

Crowley bent, hands sliding up Aziraphale’s body to toy with his nipples. He stopped with his lips just short of kissing distance. “Then _beg me_. I want to hear you plead.”

Aziraphale stubbornly turned his head away. Crowley jerked it back. Aziraphale bit his wrist. Crowley yelped and pinched Aziraphale’s nipple. Aziraphale made as if to sit up and Crowley decided to finish things. He wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s cock and gave it one agonizingly slow pump.

Crowley liked watching Aziraphale’s eyes roll back into his head. It made him feel accomplished.

As slowly as he could bear, he pressed his own manhood just to Aziraphale’s entrance and stopped. His nerves jangled with the effort not to move, but it was going to be worth it. “All you have to do,” he said huskily, “iss ssssay the word.”

Aziraphale whimpered and tried to rock against him. Crowley gave him another spank. “Ah ah ah, sssweetheart.”

Aziraphale stubbornly looked away, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “...please.”

Crowley leered. “Pleassse what?”

“PLEASE FUCK ME, CROWLEY,” Aziraphale said loudly. “And I swear, if you don’t do it soon and well I will _kill_ you for making me wait this long.”

“Pleasure to oblige,” said Crowley, obliging him.

It had been long enough that Aziraphale’s body was no longer accustomed to regular lusty demonic invasions, and it hurt a little. But Crowley had expected that, and paused when he heard Aziraphale cry out.

“If it hurtsss I’ll sssstop,” Crowley said, “though you will owe me a fantastic blowjob as recompense. You are beautiful like this, angel.”

“I’ll be fine.” Aziraphale smiled and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Just...a moment, I think...”

“Not too many moments, if you would,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “Thiss isss harder than it lookssss.”

“Feels hard enough,” Aziraphale breathed. “Go on, you bastard, I did ask for it.”

Crowley groaned and moved again.

Aziraphale threw his head back and moaned like a wanton. Crowley later made many claims as to what exactly he shouted there, all of which Aziraphale fervently denied.

Crowley was in him and so was the smell of the books. It made him feel all faint and weak and lightheaded and full all at once. It was like there was so much sensation in him it might fill him up and he would fly out of his body and be made of nothing but sensation.

What he said was considerably less eloquent. It was by and large variations upon, “oh, Crowley, fuck me Crowley, fuck me harder, oh, oh, oh Crowley,” and the occasional frankly hilarious simile comparing Crowley’s sexual prowess to various marine mammals’(6). It was only because it had been so very, very long that Crowley at no point stopped to burst out laughing.

He solved the talking problem by planting a bruising kiss on Aziraphale’s mouth, grabbing him under the knees to spread his legs further, and hammering in with such a force and suddenness that had they been on a bed, it might have broken. Satisfied that he had robbed Aziraphale of the power of speech and reduced him to inarticulate shouts, Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder and bit him savagely. He was _harsh_ , all pinching hands and scratching nails and pounding hips until all at once their hands were entwined and their backs were arched, frozen in the shared moment of ecstasy, with Aziraphale screaming Crowley’s name and Crowley just screaming, both of them praying the moment would never end and yet sure that they would die if it didn’t.

And just like that, they were spent, melting into each other on the floor. Aziraphale settled in against Crowley and wrapped his arms around him, sighing contentedly.

“Missed you,” he said.

“Knew it,” Crowley said lazily, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and gently massaging his scalp.

Aziraphale gave a little satisfied hum and buried his face into Crowley’s chest.

“It was the books. They get you all hot and bothered.”

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

“All right, little bit.”

“You’re much easier to argue with in that fuzzy post-coital state.”

“If only I could say the same for you,” Aziraphale said with a tragic sigh.  
“Oy!”

They continued in this vein for some time until Aziraphale was compelled to kiss Crowley to shut him up, which degenerated into Aziraphale making his best effort to force some of those apparently hilarious similes out of Crowley. Their sport was tragically interrupted by a returning monk, who later was completely unable to recall why the sight of that stain on the rug in the scriptorium gave him such unchaste stirrings.

And a good time was had by all.

 

(1) Particularly the book of Genesis.

(2) Aziraphale rarely felt the need to pray. To put things into perspective, it would be rather like a Google executive sending a letter by Pony Express.

(3) The reputably corrupt Avignon Papacy. It would require a chart or a host of Wikipedia articles to explain properly. No one really understood it, including Aziraphale.

(4) Not that Crowley would know. At all. Nope, definitely not.

(5) And impressive flexibility.

(6) Comparisons were also made between his genitalia and weaponry which had not, in fact, been invented yet.


End file.
